Flowers of Darkness by Tatiana Rosnay (e novels to read online TXT) 📕

all that now? A sort of companionship? Two people growing old? Is that all that kept us together? The fear of being alone?

The bearded young man I had seen before stepped out of the building and politely held the door open for me. I murmured a thank-you and walked in.

I discovered a poorly kept building, which surprised me, as my husband was usually fussy about that type of thing. The entrance smelled of cabbage soup and dampness. The elevator was minuscule and did not seem safe. I ignored it, walking up the six flights.

There were three doors per landing, and with each landing I passed, I could hear people getting on with their lives. Music, laughter, the sound of plates and cutlery, the whine of a vacuum cleaner. Quarrelling, a child crying, the blare of a TV set.

It was an old-fashioned, run-down Parisian building, with worn-out floorboards, scored walls, paint that was fading and splotched.

And it was here that my husband had chosen to live behind my back.

On the doorbell by the middle door, there was his name, François ANTOINE. It was here. No turning back now.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders. What was I going to say to this woman? Hello, I’m Mrs. Antoine. I’m François’s wife.

I imagined her face. Would she be horrified? Ashamed? Would she roar with laughter?

If I waited too long, I’d never ring. I’d end up fleeing in a panic. I had to do it now.

No thinking, no planning things out. Action.

I reached out and rang the doorbell.

It made a tinkling sound.

I imagined her thinking, Who’s that? Maybe she was in the shower. Maybe she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Maybe she was still in bed, the rumpled sheets still smelling of my husband.

I waited and listened. No noise was coming from that apartment. She had to be there. François had left five minutes ago, and I would have seen a blond lady come out.

I had only seen the young bearded guy.

I rang again, longer this time.

No answer.

I knocked firmly. Then I pounded.

I wanted to shout “I know you’re in there. Stop hiding and open the door.” I wanted to swear, to kick the door in.

No answer.

As I stood there, incensed, confounded, the door on the left opened, and the grouchy old man I had already seen poked his head around and stared at me.

“You’re making a lot of noise,” he said.

“I’m looking for the blond lady who lives here.”

He stared at me even harder.

“There’s no blond lady here.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’ve been living here for the past thirty years, and if a blond lady had moved in, I would have known.”

“So who lives here, then?”

“Can’t you read? François Antoine. Nice quiet man. You’ve got the wrong place.”

With that, he had slammed the door in my face.

 6INK

The final words of my latest novel.

ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

You see, I can’t even write this properly.

VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941

A TUNE PLAYING ON her phone dragged her slowly from sleep. Bewildered, she thought at first it was her alarm, and that she was late for a meeting, but what meeting? Then she realized it was the melody she’d chosen for Toby. “Hotel California,” the Eagles.

“Hey, Blue!”

Her first husband’s voice hadn’t changed. It was still kind and warm. She felt gladdened just by listening to it. He’d never stopped using the nickname he found for her when they first met all those years ago, inspired by her eye color.

“Did I wake you up? Sounds like it!”

She stretched her arms, got out of bed with difficulty. The aches and pains, the tiredness, all were still there.

“I’ll get over it!”

She knew why he was calling.

“Did Jordan phone you?”

“No one can keep anything from you, Blue.”

He admitted their daughter was worried. Jordan felt something was up with her mother, and that it had been going on for a while. She’d opened up to her father. Clarissa listened. She let Toby talk. She visualized him facing his beloved sea. After their divorce, Toby decided to settle down in the Basque country, near Biarritz. He’d been able to continue his career as an English teacher. At present, he was retired. He lived in Guéthary, in a new apartment she had not been to, on the top floor of an ancient hotel overlooking the Atlantic. She knew there was a pretty terrace, seen in Jordan’s and Andy’s photos.

Born in Santa Monica, Toby needed to breathe the ocean air and listen to the roar of the swell. He regularly went down to ride the waves at the surf spot at Parlementia. The state of the sea made him despondent, as it became increasingly polluted as the years went by. He had told Clarissa swimming was often prohibited because of the hazard of contaminated seawater. Forced to roast on the dike without being able to dip a toe into the ocean, vacationers came less often. Every summer, hundreds of fish washed up on the rocks. The stink of dead fish, added to the reek of unclean water, made it impossible to breathe. Within ten years, the beaches at Guéthary and neighboring Bidart vanished. They’d been gobbled up by the waves, falling prey to shifting sands and rising sea level. Clarissa knew the same thing had happened in Biarritz, to the north. She’d seen the reports shot at the Côte des Basques. Nowadays, there was no difference between low and high tide. The long golden beach, loved by surfers and holidaymakers, the pride of the city, had also surrendered, vanquished by the breakers.

“So, tell me. What’s up? Jordan said you left François.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Clarissa sat down on the sofa, with Chablis lying at her feet. She had always trusted Toby. But it seemed that this morning, so many things were still bottled up within her. She was finding it more and more difficult to express herself, to put the right words to her feelings. Yet words had never failed her. They were her friends, not her foe.

“Take your time,” said Toby after a